


i wish you could be honest with me

by teamfreeawesome



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 16:03:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2738534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreeawesome/pseuds/teamfreeawesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser's body tells a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i wish you could be honest with me

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from my [Tumblr](http://teamfreeawesome.tumblr.com) for posterity. Fic is usually posted there first and added to ao3 when I remember. Title taken from _Honest_ by The Neighbourhood. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. I'm just playing with them.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated. <3

Skin stretches over a body like a map and Ray practices cartography with every touch; takes a left turn near a rib, skims a hand over the curve of an ass. Mouth warm, kisses are pressed against the knobs of Fraser’s spine, the rise and fall of him; changing topography. Fraser’s body tells a story; he spreads out across the sheets, all skin and heat and soft curls at the base of his neck as sweat beads – and Ray can see every turn Fraser has ever taken. He can see each bridge crossed, each perpetrator he’s apprehended. There’s a scar, low, at the base of his back, and Ray can taste that tube line on his tongue. Stop here for Victoria, it says.

Front two carriages for Ray.

Last stop, Stanley.

 

//

 

Up near his neck, just at the juncture of his shoulders, there’s a hickey. It’s a purpling bruise, and Ray hasn’t seen this mark before.

Last stop Stanley, it says across Fraser’s scapula. It looks like whisky across Fraser’s skin, yellowing like old teeth. Last stop Stanley. Shuttle buses from here.

Ray can see the tyre marks and Fraser’s back tastes like burning rubber. His fingers trace the mark, cold against the pink-blushed skin, and Fraser shivers.

“My mouth didn’t do that,” Ray whispers as he slides across Fraser’s skin, voice disappearing into soft hair at the base of Fraser’s neck. “Fraser.”

Fraser’s shoulders roll, and he hums, soft into his pillow.

“Your mouth does lots of things,” he murmurs, breath slowing into sleep, and Ray knows that Fraser doesn’t lie.

He hasn’t said anything at all.

 

//

 

It’s a Saturday and Ray can smell coffee. Beside him, Fraser’s back is made of road works, new tarmac pasted over old. Red lines, skin mottled at the edges, scraped down across Fraser’s skin – and Ray’s mouth doesn’t want to taste these.

“Did you have fun,” he says. “Fraser. Did you have fun.”

There’s a muffled noise, Fraser’s body moving slowly against the sheets. Groaning, in a way he never does, Fraser’s head lifts. Sleep-soft and messy, Fraser looks like lipstick and vodka and Ray can’t breathe.

“I always have fun with you,” Fraser mumbles, mouth slack, and Ray knows that Fraser doesn’t lie.

Fraser doesn’t lie.

 

//

 

Ray knows what beard burn looks like, scraped raw on the inside of a thigh. His mouth is occupied, kissing down the hills until his tongue is soft against puckered skin. Licking, deep, Ray hums and Fraser moans and their bodies know each other, like this and always.

Pinked skin, and Ray’s hands tremble when he touches it. Long fingers tap gently against the blush of it, and his stubble didn’t do this.

“Frase,” he says, and his forehead is pressed to the small of Fraser’s back. “Fraser. Don’t you love me no more?”

Humming, Fraser turns over and cradles Ray’s face in his hands.

“Of course I love you,” he whispers, thumb rubbing across Ray’s cheek. “Did you know,” he starts, but Ray doesn’t know, he doesn’t.

Fraser doesn’t lie, but he doesn’t tell anything like the truth, either.

 

//

 

A man smiles at Fraser, something sitting hopeful in his gaze, and Ray wonders if this is the left hand turn.

Penultimate stop, Stanley. 

 

//

 

There’s red in Ray’s kitchen, spilling out across the laminate. His first aid kit sits under the sink, but it won’t patch up anything like this. A jaunty hat, a soft-furred wolf and the kind of honesty that rips like wet paper.

“Sit, Fraser,” he says, and his mouth feels like cotton-wool.

Fraser sits, and his mouth is a line that not even a Ray-train could cross. 

“Frase,” he says, hands against the counter as he breathes, head ducked. “Frase,” he tries again, rocking, skin jittery and tight. “I know there’s someone else. Several someone else’s.”

“There are only two of us in this kitchen, Ray,” Fraser says, and there’s guilt like syrup, dripping from the corners of his mouth. “Unless you count Diefenbaker.”

“Yeah?” Ray says, and it stings coming out of his mouth. “Dief give you that hickey? It’s not – I don’t _care_ ,” Ray tries, and it’s almost the truth against his tongue. “I just want you to be honest with me.”

“You care,” Fraser says, and isn’t that the truth.

Fraser doesn’t lie, after all.

 

//

 

Fraser moves into Ray’s space, soft and warm, and their cocoon of blankets rises and falls to the rhythm of their breathing. Ray’s mouth is level with Fraser’s chest, and he presses a kiss to the beat that pulses there, x marks the spot.

“Frase,” he says, and there’s a soft noise and a hand in his hair. “Frase, I don’t care. I just want you to stop lying to me. Lay all the truths on me.”

The hand stops, pauses with a strand between two fingers, before moving again, carding gently.

“I don’t lie, Ray,” Fraser says, the rumble of his voice vibrating beneath Ray’s mouth, his lips buzzing with it as he kisses across bare skin. “But I can see that you care.”

“I don’t,” Ray protests, eyes fluttering shut as he breathes deep. “I don’t care, Frase. I just want you to trust me with this.”

Fraser shifts beneath him, skin sticking slightly to skin.

“Of course you care, Ray. That’s how you love.”

It feels like a punch, hard to the solar plexus, and Ray spends moments remembering how to breathe. Fraser is a bullet train, fast and accurate, and he knows where Ray’s soft spots are.

“I won’t always care, Frase. It hurts, you know, when you fuck other people. Let them leave their spit and spunk all over you. One day, I’ll stop caring.”

Fraser tugs gently on the ends of Ray’s hair, a quiet humming noise resonating in his chest.

“You won’t,” Fraser says, and he sounds firm, quiet and sure. “Even now, after years of hurt, you still care about Stella. So you will care, Ray. You’ll always care.”

And isn’t that the kicker, because it’s true. Fraser doesn’t lie, after all.


End file.
